Death of a Raven by Margaret Duffy Page B

the ensuing redevelopment. At the end of this time Mark emerged more exhausted than he thought possible and told me all about it. He was surprised that the tuition had not really been about the martial arts but self-control, admitting to losing his temper four times without being touched. The penalty for this was thirty press-ups on each occasion, his mentor all the while lethally demure.
    “Chris Fraser’s flying out,” said McAlister to Hartland that evening. “Our managing director,” he elaborated after Hartland had looked at him quite blankly.
    “What does that achieve?”
    “It’s a gesture of support — that’s all,” Drew replied, surprised.
    “To be with us in our time of need.” Hartland spoke slowly, his voice tremulous with false emotion.
    Terry walked out, hands clenched.
    “Have you been drinking?” McAlister said sharply.
    “I might have been,” Hartland observed, and also left the room. 
    “Nerves … I hope,” I commented, closing the book I had been unable to concentrate on. The phone rang and was answered on an upstairs extension.
    “How’s Paul?” asked Margaret.
    “Very weak,” I told her. “They don’t hold out much hope for him.”
    “But he’s a fighter,” said Patrick who had entered without any of us noticing.
    “Who, Paul?” said Margaret. “I wouldn’t have said so.”
    Patrick sprawled on the sofa. “When I was with him — that first night — he was in terrible pain a lot of the time. But I could see just by looking at him that he wasn’t going to give in easily.”
    McAlister repeated the news that Fraser was joining us and Patrick pulled a wry face.
    “More worry for you?” Drew hazarded.
    “He was the one to whom the letters were addressed. Who knows? This might be exactly what somebody wants him to do.”
    “Shall I wire him not to come?”
    “I’m not sure that I ought to make that kind of decision,” Patrick said. “Is it of practical help to you if he does?”
    “Certainly. Paul’s the computer genius, but the project’s all Chris’s brainchild. People tend to forget that.”
    Margaret said, “Chris can produce the technical drawings. If you carry on writing the design documentation, perhaps we can borrow a programmer from Nasonworth.”
    “That’s fine until we hit snags,” McAlister told her. “But we can work on like that for a while. Chris might decide to send someone else out from UK.”
    “That’s it then,” Patrick announced. “He comes.” He frowned as Mark came into the room. “What’s wrong? Have you heard from the hospital?”
    “No,” said Mark. “It was Le Blek. He wanted to know if I’d seen Lanny Gaspereau lately.”
    “What did you say?” 
    “I told him the truth.”
    Patrick gave no reaction. “Go on.”
    “He asked me if I was aware that he’d served eight years for manslaughter in 1972. I told him no — of course I wasn’t.”
    Patrick said, “I’d already mentioned our small fracas the other night. What else did he say?”
    “Lanny’s prints were on the cans.”
    “Lanny’s prints were on the cans,” Patrick echoed in a whisper. “How interesting. He was the dark-haired one, wasn’t he? The only one of the three who was more muscle than fat. Blue eyes, small scar on the left cheek that was probably a legacy from a knife fight. More intelligent than the others so therefore the most dangerous.”
    “That’s Lanny,” said Mark.
    Patrick subjected him to an unwavering stare. “Did you tell him everything you know?”
    “Of course.”
    “Nothing you deliberately left unsaid?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I am speaking English.”
    The basement lessons certainly hadn’t cowed Mark. He met Patrick’s stare defiantly. “I don’t know where Lanny is.”
    “I’m not really suggesting that you do.” The human lie detector was well into his stride by now, his expression intent, never taking his gaze off Mark for a moment. It is a side of Patrick that I do not like at all. “Perhaps